


Coming For Blood

by LyraNgalia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, F/M, Light Bondage, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:42:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraNgalia/pseuds/LyraNgalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes indulge in a very different sort of play from their usual intellectual games...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming For Blood

Sherlock was on his knees on the bed, struggling against the bonds that lashed his wrists to the headboard, the metal links clinking loudly against the wrought iron ornamentation. Irene smiled, predatory, as she circled the bed, inspecting him with a merciless eye. Opera gloves covered her fingers, encased her slim arms with silk, but her grip on the leather riding crop was sure as she swung it against his bared haunches.

"I thought you knew how to hold still, Mr. Holmes," she snapped, her voice as sharp as the crack of leather against bare flesh. The blow left a red lash against his pale skin, and she smirked as his erection twitched in response to the pain.

"And I _thought_ you knew how to tie me down properly last time,” he retorted with a smirk, yanking on his bonds again. His voice was steady and flippant, but she could see the way his breath hitched, the way his pupils dilated as she finished circling the bed to stand at the head of it again.

Her lips twitched with an involuntary smile before she swung the crop again, this time against his shoulder. “Keep that up and I’ll get the bit as well as the crop,” she warned over his involuntary hiss at the blow, resting her foot on the bed. She leaned close, her lips against his ear, and commanded in a low, intimate purr. “Now straighten that back and hold on to the headboard, Mr. Holmes.”

She _saw_ the shudder run through him at the command, at the way his body grew tense and expectant as he obeyed. She waited a moment, until she was certain he’d steadied himself, that his grip was sure, before she climbed on top of the bed, her heeled boots sure against the soft surface. She lowered herself to a seat, legs crossed, on his lower back, every inch the lady riding sidesaddle, and ran a gloved finger down his bare spine.

He jerked against the intimate touch, and Irene’s cold smile turned momentarily hungry, heated with desire where he could not see it. This was part of their appeal, their game. That while she’d deduced what he liked, there was still something there in his pride that she could not understand, that she did not see, that kept him from breaking even as he submitted, and Irene _gloried_ in it, in exposing it, in making him beg through that glorious stubborn pride.

"Twenty lashes," she told him, running the riding crop along the curve of his legs, following a path up his bare inner thigh. He trembled at the touch, but held still. She pulled one opera glove off with her teeth, and slipped her bare hand into his curls, gripping tight as she raised the crop high for the first promised lash.

"And I will be _very_ displeased if you try to throw me off before then.”


End file.
